But the wives of the working heads could have told of more enduring change in men who have suddenly become responsible for great issues, for laws, for a system they had had no voice in founding. Men who found themselves limited masters where unconsciously they had been tools and were selected as such—there 369 men sooner or later bend before the strain put on them and for the most part seek salvation in blind obedience to the rules they dare not criticise. In the daily compromise between the individual character and the system which he must serve, many an excellent man was ground down in nerve and heart and health to a strange shadow of his former self, and many a woman shed secret tears over half-understood changes in one near and dear to her.
Mr. Saunderson by right of informal instructions, which no one troubled to dispute, acted as steward over the late Peter Masters’ private affairs during those two years of waiting, and his stewardship was prosperous and able, but beyond that he neither would nor could move. To the appeals of distracted secretaries he only replied, “My dear sir, act to the best of your ability. I can only assure you your responsibilities are limited to two years.”
He never allowed to anyone the possibility that Peter Masters’ son might even then fail to accept his place, but alone to himself he faced it often and felt his scanty hair whiten beneath the impending wreckage, if the misguided young man continued his foolish course.
“He will probably wreck the whole thing if he accepts it,” sighed Mr. Saunderson, “but at least it will be done legally, and in the regular course of things. If he’ll only be sensible and see he’s wanted just as a figurehead, everyone will be comfortable and prosperous.”
But he sighed again as he thought it, for Christopher did not at all strike him as a man likely to make a good figurehead, or to be the mouthpiece of a system he evidently disliked. He was even more confirmed in this opinion a fortnight after the unhappy affair at the Patrimondi works, when Christopher walked into his London office and without any explanation announced 370 himself ready to take his place as Peter Masters’ son. He was sufficiently wise to conceal his own triumph and accepted the intimation without question. As they sat there in the dull London office hour after hour, Mr. Saunderson realised that the mantle of Peter Masters, millionaire, had fallen on shoulders that would wear it maybe in a very different fashion, but none the less royally.
“I am to understand then,” said Christopher after long hours of instruction, “I can go there when I like, see what I like, decide what I like, at all events with regard to these mines and works which are almost private property.”
“You can go to-morrow if you like,” answered his Mentor, rising. “I advise you to let things run for some time as they are, till you know the ropes.”
He went to a safe and unlocking it produced a key.
“That is the key of your father’s room at Princes Buildings,” he said, putting it on the table. “There are two locks. Clisson, the head clerk, has the key of one and this is the other. You are free to walk straight in when you like, but it would be best to send Clisson a wire you are coming and he would bring you the day’s business, your private affairs that is, precisely as he used to bring it to your father.”
This time, because he was looking intently at the young man, he saw his mouth tighten at that term and felt a resigned wonder thereat.